The Testimony of Bendigo Fletcher

By Keira F. Jacobs

Bendigo Fletcher is destined to end up in the family herb business, bound to his treehouse village of Whimselon until death. In the world of Tarsha, death is the true end for all things, an eternal black void. It's been this way since the Twilights, an army of dark spirits

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ironcroft Publishing
• Release date: Nov 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9780977168880

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The Testimony of Bendigo Fletcher

The Testimony of Bendigo Fletcher

Keira F. Jacobs

Copyright © 2022 by Keira F. Jacobs

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Ironcroft Publishing

P.O. Box 370 Hartland, MI 48353

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition 2022

ISBNs: 978-0-9771688-7-3 (paperback), 978-0-9771688-8-0 (ebook)

Cover art © 2022 by Violet Design

Editing by Robin LeeAnn

Formatting by Jeff Fenzel

For my dad. You are the reason I write.

And for my mom, for loving Bendigo as much as I do.

I hereby testify that all parts of this journey are true.

The City of Orenda: 400 years ago

No one knows where The Book of Prophecy came from. Only how it was found.

On a bitter winter night, a single librarian weathered the tundra in Orenda’s empty streets. All the windows in the cobblestone city had been shut tight, blocking the pestering frost that dared to seep through the cracks. He pulled his cloak tighter around his neck and buried his chin inside its scratchy wool.

An irritating nag tapped against his temples. He had to bear the weather twice due to his tiring forgetfulness. He had made it all the way home only to realize that he hadn’t smothered the candles in his office before leaving for the night. Now, the air seemed to nip at his nose harder, and his numb skin did little to lessen the bite.

The library door creaked as he forced its frozen hinges open and stepped inside, pausing in the dim space to listen. He knew he was the only one in this equally frigid and musty space, yet he felt that he was not alone. Which was nonsense, of course, because he was the only one who held the key to this treasured building. It was his library. He knew every spine on each shelf, and his eyes were always drawn to where his apprentices had misplaced a book.

Like now. He noticed a leather-bound book that had been shelved incorrectly. The shelf was obviously reserved for the dark blue spines of mathematics books, and this book did not belong.

He made his way to the book and ran his fingers down the spine. It was bumpy with vine-like engravings, and upon touching it, a strange clash of conviction and glee exploded in his chest. He yanked his hand away, his heart speeding.

Then his hands touched it again. This time, he pulled it down and threw the cover open. But nothing was there. He fanned through the pages with his thumb, examining the entire book in one sweeping scan to confirm that what he saw was true.

All the pages were blank.

No words, no pictures, and no maps. Nothing. The leather cover had promised something spectacular, but after investigating, it seemed mindless. An unfulfilled promise. Yet something about it made the librarian stuff it into his cloak.

He rushed to the library’s back room, blowing out the candles he had so hastily forgotten about earlier that evening.

The frosty air stung his face once again on his second trek home through the cobblestone streets. He shuddered, listening for any sign of invasion. Magical creatures had been getting closer to the city of Orenda. The People of the World—who were fighting them off—had sent word two days ago, warning Orenda of encroaching danger.

Magic always had a place in the world of Tarsha. Until The People of the World deemed it too dangerous. Too powerful. Too untrustworthy. To keep the creatures who housed it away, The People of the World built an army founded on fear and pride. They outcasted those who were born with magic or used it. The two sides held bitter hatred toward each other for years until a war erupted. It had been three years since, and there seemed to be no end in sight.

The librarian entered his single-room dwelling, safe from the cold at last. He placed the mysterious book on his kitchen table and strode over to the fireplace. As he struggled to thaw his stiff fingers over the fresh flames, a loud, heavy thud sounded. He turned his head.

The book lay open on the floor.

He stiffened and rotated his body to see what could have caused it to fall, thinking that perhaps a winter gust had swept through an open window. Though that was not the case.

Ink now filled its once blank pages. Black words seeped out to create sentence after sentence, as if an invisible hand used a quill that never ran dry. The sentences formed stories. Stories of war and hate and triumph. Reading them, he soon found that the sentences weren’t words of a story passed but words of a story to be.

In the weeks that followed, every word in the book proved to be a prophetic telling of the war. Word of this mystical tome spread fast throughout the city. Everyone wanted to see the stories of tomorrow and prepare for the battles to come.

Each night, after the moon had taken its place, the people of Orenda would light their torches, brave the cold together, and flood to the librarian’s home. The librarian would stand at his second story window and recite the prophecies that had appeared that day to the masses in the streets below. Sometimes, the stories took hours, leaving the Orendans trembling and numb in the dead of winter’s night.

The book gave The People of the World the upper hand in the war, and their continuous sulking and fear subsided day by day. Orendans praised the librarian, naming him the Keeper of The Book of Prophecy. Enthralled with their newfound knowledge, they were too preoccupied to notice a new evil worse than magic had crept into their world.

This new evil had descended from the spiritual realm—a place that was untouchable to any living being and only spoken of as someplace that would be a sanctuary in death. A sacred thought. A peaceful belief. It was never told through myths that evil beings resided within that treasured realm. Perhaps no one knew. But the Twilights’ appearance brought that reality to life.

They came as an army of wispy, black-cloaked spirits who desired control in both life and death. They took advantage of the war and suffocated Tarsha with death and disaster. Crops died. People faded into insanity. Families turned on one another. Their powerful presence overtook The People of the World and magical creatures alike. It seemed as if nothing could prevent their reign.

It was then that The Book of Prophecy closed.

A full year had passed since the Keeper had first been in possession of it. On a frosty night, just like the previous year, a rumbling shook Orenda’s city walls. A darkness came over the moon so heavily that some claimed the moon fell from the sky.

The Keeper rose from his seat by the fireplace, still holding onto The Book. He shook and heaved at the last sentence he had laid eyes on before The Book’s cover slammed shut, unable to open again. He feared to tell his fellow Orendans the prophecy, knowing it would destroy them. Though keeping it a secret would not save them from the fate they all now faced.

That night, Orendans traveled as a herd with their torches lit and their cloaks drawn around their bodies to hear the new prophecy.

The Twilight army has left us, the Keeper proclaimed from his window.

Mumbles of uncertainty rumbled through the crowd.

Though they fought hard and gained power over us, they could not overtake our souls in this life as they had wished. But they have taken something more precious in their departure.

More mumbles, further concerned this time.

They have stolen the afterlife from us. We now live only to face darkness upon our deaths. They may not have us here, but they will have us there.

The fear that had once gripped The People of the World now turned into horror as they wailed through the streets, crying out to the sky as they pleaded for the Twilights to give them back hope in life after death. But no matter how desperate their cries, the evil gave them no pity.

The winter turned even harsher, the frost too invasive to keep from crawling under the doors, and the falling snow was bitter to the touch instead of the fluffy wet clumps that usually laid atop Orenda’s roofs. But worse than the weather’s turn was the Orendan’s desperation to hear a hopeful word from The Book of Prophecy again.

Yet The Book remained closed.

For seven days, the Keeper stayed hidden in his dwelling, sleeping with The Book on his chest. He woke only to set it down by the fire and watch it lie still all day. Over and over, like a spinning wheel, the thought of darkness after death consumed him. He skipped meals, didn’t wash, and didn’t buy more wood for his fireplace. There was no reason to live life with purpose if the end led to nothing.

The Orendans believed the same thing. Except they grew desperate enough to take to the streets one extra bitter night. Raging flames lit their torches as they flocked to the Keeper’s dwelling like they had so many times before. Only this time, they didn’t mean to hear words from him. They wanted to take the words from him.

They bellowed and thundered through the streets with intent to rip The Book from him and pry it open themselves, forcing the pages to speak another ending.

The Keeper heard the approaching shouts, and it drew him to his windowsill to find their angry faces marching toward his dwelling. His heart leaped to his throat when he realized the danger they brought. He then wanted to live, though it was for nothing.

He staggered back from the window and fell over himself to get to The Book. Without reason or clarity, he knew he had to keep it safe and away from the Orendans. Prying it open would only result in more turmoil and unrest. He knew. He had already tried. A dense fog had seeped into his dwelling where it hung for three days, watching him every second and keeping him afraid to ever try it again. The Book was more than a source of knowledge. It was power. It needed to leave Orenda.

The Orendans’ angry shouts thundered closer and echoed in the frosted streets below. The Keeper grabbed the warmest cloak he owned, and he barely had it draped around his body as he and The Book made for the back stairway that led to the alley behind his dwelling. The air stung his face, and his feet clattered onto the cobblestone. His fingers shivered as he held The Book against his chest and under his cloak. He heard the mob breaking through his front door on the other side of the building, but he gave no care to the state of his possessions as his legs carried him through the frosted night.

The cobblestone eventually broke apart and gave way to brittle, stiff fields of dormant tall grass. The Keeper carried on, crunching over the weeds. Up ahead in the distance stood a barn that housed Orenda’s working animals. He knew he had to have four-legged help if he wanted to depart quicker. His heart sped as he blindly collected the first horse from the front stall and mounted it. The other animals in the barn shifted and moaned at the disturbance in this ungodly hour.

The Book jostled against the Keeper’s chest as he leaned down into the horse’s ear and whispered, To Whimselon.

His own directions startled him. The words had departed from his mouth without thought. He clutched The Book even tighter as the horse jolted forward, understanding the command. They galloped into the forest and left Orenda behind.

Why had the village of Whimselon been his choice of escape? Perhaps because it was the farthest west on the map. Or maybe it was because the people there held such a stature of vanity that they would be more prone to keep The Book a secret just for the sake of possessing a treasure that no one else had.

But as the horse ripped through the winter night, the Keeper felt in his deepest discernment that The Book itself had chosen Whimselon. That perhaps The Book knew of a future where Whimselon could offer an end to hopeless days.

Even if it took four hundred years.

One: Whimselon [Wim-sa-lon]

Bendigo Fletcher bent over to roll up his linen pant legs. The water in the woodland marshes had risen since the last rainfall. Even though he was on the outskirts of Whimselon where the marshes would dry up—giving way to packed, muddy ground—the swamp was unusually deep. He rolled his pants up to the bottom of his calves but decided the water was still too high, so he pulled the cloth to just below his kneecaps and chuckled at how he now looked like one of Whimselon’s gardening women.

He used his hand to shove his smile down. Better not risk getting caught laughing to himself in the thick of the forest, alone. Most of Whimselon already side-eyed him when he passed by. He knew many wondered why he delighted in keeping to himself or—better yet—delighted in avoiding conversation. The fact that he laughed to himself didn’t need to be reviewed on top of his withdrawn behavior.

With bare feet, Bendigo stepped onto the marsh, not sinking into the mud but resting lightly on top. Being a Whim, his bones were too light to break the muck’s surface. He tilted his dark-haired head back to check the time. The sun was starting to set, casting a golden glow on the highest twigs of the tallest bald cypress trees. If he didn’t hurry, he might miss his window of time. He needed to get into one of the trees to see if he could spot the abnormal shadows he had seen last night.

His stomach tightened a little, thinking about seeing strange apparitions floating on the horizon line. The first time he saw them was an accident; he had just been hiding out in one of his favorite trees, trying to get a perfect view of the coral and mango colored sky as the sun dipped low. But he saw strange shapes instead, so he had to come back for another look.

Grabbing onto a branch with gray moss hanging so low it touched the tip of the swamp, Bendigo swung his tall, lanky figure up to a perched stance. He stood and moved to the tree’s trunk on the balls of his feet. With quick, fluid motions, he traveled upward from branch to branch until he webbed through the fragile twigs at the top. They bent beneath him but didn’t give way, thanks to his light bones.

His head broke through the top. He gazed above the moss-covered trees that decorated the marshland. A few miles out, thousands of twinkling lanterns dotted the horizon where the Whims had created a beautiful community of treehouses. It grew every year with not only places to live but also businesses. Whimselon sold or traded the best herb medicine in all of Tarsha. Most businesses benefited from and supported the herb trade one way or the other. Like too many other Whims, the herb business was Bendigo’s future.

His gaze moved to look toward the setting sun. The red glowing mass still sat above the horizon line. Silhouetted against the sun’s fiery light were black, wispy shadows that moved in and out of each other. He clenched the twig that kept him steady. They appeared bigger since last night, slightly closer to Whimselon. Their shape was hard to make out from this far away, but at moments, it seemed like they took on a form similar to himself. Arms and a head but not really legs per se. Their bottom half floated out like a black cloak that faded to wisps.

Bendigo squinted, trying to gain as much focus as he could. There were a lot of them, but he still couldn’t figure out what they were exactly.

Looking down at the marsh below, he shrugged away a shudder. Though he had only fallen a few times, he could slip, sail to the ground, and break his neck. It would all be over. Done. Darkness would be the only thing that awaited because that was all there was.

He knew about the afterlife that used to promise peace after death. While Tarsha’s ancestors had fought to contain magic and suppress its power, an unknown evil had slid in undetected and conquered them both, stealing the afterlife as its own.

Hey! a voice sprang into Bendigo’s ear.

He jumped, almost losing his grasp on the twigs that held him. The spike of startlement ceased when he saw Willy sitting below him, a grin spreading wide across her dirt-streaked face.

Willy. He dropped down to her. You shouldn’t do that. It’s not fair to whimsle a Whim. Whimsle was what the Whims called it when a Whim sneaked up on something. Mainly for hunting an animal, which made sense. Not normally on people.

I don’t care if it’s fair or not. She pushed the loose sandy-colored hair back from her bun. It’s fun.

He smiled. He really wanted to be alone out here tonight, especially since today was one of his more withdrawn days, but he knew that having company usually snapped him out of his uncontrollable sadness. What are you doing all the way out here?

She followed him down the tree, back toward the marsh. Looking for something fun to do.

He landed quietly on the ground. All the way out here? He didn’t turn around to help her; he knew she wouldn’t want it.

Yeah. She landed next to him. I finished studying hours ago.

You finished all the botany assignments? Already?

You didn’t? Ben, come on. This is our last year of academics. Don’t you know how to weasel your way through it yet?

I just don’t do it. He shrugged and walked away from her.

Really? If I knew that, I would have stopped doing it years ago! Why didn’t you tell me?

Because it’s a bad idea? I’m not doing well.

Willy strode next to Bendigo as they waded through the marsh, back in the direction of the treehouses. Do you just not care?

I really don’t. I’m just going to work with my brother in our herb business.

She drew up her nose. That sounds so boring though. No wonder you’re sad all the time.

He felt the familiar pang of being misunderstood and put up one more brick on his internal emotional wall.

Not in a bad way. She seemed oblivious. You like to be sad, don’t you?

"What makes you think I like to be sad?"

Well, you like to be alone.

That’s true.

But it was because he felt sad that he liked to be alone. He just didn’t know why he was sad. The sadness would come on like a heavy wave, fogging his brain. He would withdraw, hoping to clear his head, but being alone only made him sadder, which made him want to be alone. It was a vicious cycle.

Although, it was also the reason why he didn’t mind Willy bothering him all the time. She had always been around since they were young—at first uninvited and then eventually an unlikely best friend. As children, not a day went by that they weren’t together, unless her parents came up with another reason to put her on house arrest. She had a knack for talking his ear off and being too pushy, but her presence usually snapped him out of his mental fog. Though he had never told her that.

"Well, what were you doing out here?" She snagged a piece of long grass as she walked and whittled it between her fingers.

He glanced sideways at her. Have you seen the shadows riding in with the sunset?

Shadows? No. What kind of shadows?

They don’t really look like shadows. I just don’t know what else to call them. He waved his hand, mimicking the shadows’ motion. "They float like they have no legs, but sometimes when they weave in and out of each other, they look like they have arms and a head. They’re still too far